IV A PROMISED LAND 207 



possible to be believed is an image of truth.' 

 Nobody doubts the copper bolts are there, down 

 west, among the boulders and weed-grown rocks, 

 in the rotting hull of an old ship. Benjie has said 

 so times without number. Years and years ago 

 he fished up one or two of them in a skim-net, 

 and scraped them till he came to the soft shining 

 copper. But we do doubt if we shall ever see any 

 of them. It is doubtful if even Benjie will ever 

 see them any more. He has talked them from a 

 fact into a tradition. Long enough he has been 

 meaning to go again, and has not gone. The 

 tides didn't suit; the day, wind, boat, mate, 

 gear — something wasn't fitty. 'Let 'em bide. 

 They won't shift. Someday us'll hae 'em.' 

 The old wreck is a memory and a hope to him — a 

 longshoreman's Promised Land. 'Copper bolts ! 

 They there copper bolts !' The words themselves 

 have acquired a magical sound. They brighten 

 Benjie's eyes. To us who have heard about them 

 so often, the copper bolts are a fairy tale. They 

 belong to fairyland. They are a reality which 

 has slid back into the past. 



Nevertheless, it is a fairyland In which Benjie 

 lives. While we rowed homeward, the sun 

 finished setting behind the westernmost cliffs. A 



